Harold Gets Laryngitis
by Marianne Greenleaf
Summary: The silver-tongued bandleader can't talk - to his consternation, the town's disappointment, and his wife's amusement!
1. Monday

At first, Harold wasn't too bothered when he woke up with a sore throat and the sniffles on Saint Patrick's Day. He was even a bit amused by it, as Marian had discovered she was also suffering from the exact same affliction. This was the second cold husband and wife had caught in tandem – given the sheer amount of time they'd spent ensconced in the most intimate of embraces over the past winter, sharing illness along with pleasure was to be expected. They'd had a cold together at the end of February, too, and it had disappeared quickly. Harold expected this one would be just as fleeting.

While it was annoying to have a cold on the day of a planned boys' band parade, it was hardly surprising. The weather was quite variable of late – the snow squall on Saturday had given way to a rapid increase in temperature on Sunday that led to the melting of almost all the snow by Monday. Such capricious climate shifts were awfully hard on a body, providing the perfect atmosphere for incubation of such maladies – and as loath as Harold was to admit it, he wasn't able to rebound from illness and injury as speedily as he had in his twenties and even thirties. Around this chancy time of year, Mrs. Paroo, ever the sage dispenser of folk wisdom, liked to say, "A swing of fifteen degrees brings on the wheeze."

As ever, Harold masterfully ignored the limitations of his body. He rose swiftly and dressed in his dapper emerald green marching band jacket trimmed with gold buttons, braid, and tassel, which he had made special for the Saint Patrick's Day festivities. He had even commissioned a green hat plumed with white feathers, to match his pants. It would not do to wear his usual red marching band jacket, lest he get pinched affectionately by Marian or worse, his bonafide Irish mother-in-law, for lacking the color of the holiday in his sartorial repertoire. A shamrock garland festooning his cap completed his ensemble.

Marian, who was likewise putting the finishing touches on her get-up, regarded him with admiring eyes when his gaze met hers in the mirror she was currently facing. "That's a wonderful color on you, Harold."

Although Harold certainly appreciated the compliment, he was far more arrested by what _she_ was wearing. Though most of the townspeople were likely to don the traditional emerald green, such bold tones were not Marian's most complementary palate. Instead, she had chosen a jade green silk gown with a floral motif. It was also trimmed with ribbon, which perfectly coordinated to form the sash, bodice draping, and delicately scalloped edges of her sleeves and neckline. The librarian looked absolutely stunning in this frock, and she would stand out both tastefully and elegantly from the crowd – just as she ought to, being both his wife and second-in-command of the boys' band.

Harold slinked over, wrapped his arms around Marian's waist, and dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck. "_You_ look good enough to eat, my dear." He nibbled playfully at her ear and then her neck, eliciting a giggle and a swat, the latter of which he dodged with ease. The giggle, however, sent a pleasant shudder through him and made him twitch below the belt – ever since they'd married, her laughter had grown deliciously throaty and come-hither. Though one minor detail about his wife's outfit nagged at him, a detail which he couldn't in good conscience ignore even in the midst of heated flirtation (such was the downfall of being a devoted husband!): "Your sleeves are summer-short – will you be warm enough?"

Marian nodded. "I have a shawl to wear. In any case, I find that I haven't been as cold as I normally get in the winter." She let out another one of those delectable little laughs of hers. "You've certainly been doing plenty to keep me warm, _Mister_ Hill."

Now thoroughly riled up, Harold seriously considered divesting both her and himself of all the clothing they'd so carefully donned. But to his chagrin, they didn't have time for even the quickest of romps, as they'd both slept too late to indulge in such luxuries. It was one thing to be fashionably late to brunch on the second day of one's honeymoon, but as the leaders of the town-wide festivities, they could not command such leeway on this occasion. Besides, Mrs. Paroo and Winthrop were due to arrive any minute.

Indeed, the doorbell rang not two minutes after Marian's impertinent rejoinder. There was only enough time to give her a few paltry love-bites – Harold took meticulous care to ensure that they were hard enough to make her moan but gentle enough not to leave any incriminating marks. He also did his damnedest not to ruffle either of their ensembles, not only to preserve their reputations, but also because there was a certain eroticism in _not_ being able to go too far. Such restraint would whet his appetite all the keener for tonight – and, he was sure, hers as well.

"To be continued," he promised his blushing but delighted wife in a husky voice. They separated and went downstairs, demure as you please, to welcome their guests.

Naturally, Mrs. Paroo wasn't fooled. "I hope I haven't come at a bad time," she said nonchalantly, though her eyes gleamed with amusement.

"Of course not, Mama." The librarian would have been thoroughly convincing in her delivery – if not for the charming tinge of pink suffusing her cheeks. It was still a mite too cool outside to explain her rosy complexion as due to the weather. Still, she soldiered on with impeccable poise. "Where's Winthrop?"

"He's already at the emporium with the other boys and Tommy Djilas," the matron explained. "You're looking awfully flushed this morning, darling! Are you well?"

Harold came to the rescue, like any good white knight worth his salt. "That's a charming necklace, Mrs. Paroo," he observed, focusing on the large Celtic cross around her neck. It _was_ a stunning piece, with its intricate knotting and rosette of green silk in the center. "Family heirloom?"

The distraction worked, but not for the reason the music professor had planned. His voice came out in the same hoarse rasp as it had when he had made his last remark to Marian upstairs. But it was not desire that was coarsening his dulcet baritone.

"Why, yes indeed, it was my great grandmother's… good heavens, me boy, did you swallow a whole pond of frogs?" said Mrs. Paroo, going from flattered to alarmed as she fully registered that her charming son-in-law had most decidedly _not_ kissed the Blarney stone.

Harold vigorously cleared his throat, loosening a great deal of congestion as he did so. He quickly gulped it away. "I appear to have caught a slight cold," he said ruefully. His voice was still gruff, but not nearly as gravelly as it had been before. While it was not as smooth as he would have liked, it was smooth enough that the apprehension ebbed from both the ladies' countenances, though his mother-in-law still looked a tad skeptical at his choice of the words "slight cold" to explain the horrible squawk he'd just emitted. Lest Mrs. Paroo turn the full force of her motherly concern on _his_ health, the music professor quickly suggested that the three of them head to the emporium to join the others. To his relief, both wife and mother-in-law agreed without protest.

XXX

However, Harold's hoarseness did _not_ go away. While leading the Saint Patrick's Day parade down Center Street required nothing more than a jaunty manner and a wide grin, he struggled to contribute to _Danny Boy_ when the singing portion of the festivities began on the pavilion in Madison Picnic Park. Fortunately, the music professor wasn't slated to perform any solos, but without his strong, steady voice to underpin the melody, the pitch of the tune wavered a bit more wildly than it would have otherwise.

By the time they reached the final song, _Peg o' My Heart_, Harold was reduced to silently miming the words. Marian, whose beautiful soprano rang out as clearly as it ever did, ended up carrying the load. Normally, this would not have been an issue, but given that the lyrics of this particular song were from the perspective of a lad addressing his beloved, the absence of the music professor's voice was rather odd.

Fortunately, as the boys sang with everything they had and were heartily joined by the River City-ziens, only Harold's wife seemed to notice his absence from the resulting din. When the concert finally came to its conclusion, Marian regarded the music professor with concern. "Are you all right, darling?"

Refusing to to let a little tickle in his throat ruin the day, Harold nodded vigorously. "Merely a bit of vocal strain," he murmured. "A good lunch should do the trick."

But when the corned beef and cabbage was served, Harold struggled to swallow it. Not because it tasted bad – in all honesty, he could barely taste it, given that his nose was plugged up – but because his throat had apparently decided to stop working properly. Even the cool glass of water that his wife had so helpfully procured for him was a trial to imbibe.

Marian continued to gaze at him with an anxious eye as he tried his damnedest to cram his lunch down his gullet. "Are you _sure_ you're all right, Harold?"

"The corned beef – it's like sandpaper," he rasped – and immediately went into a fit of coughing as a speck of seasoning hit the back of his throat in precisely the wrong way.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Dunlop happened to overhear his pronouncement, and looked thoroughly affronted. She was the one who had spearheaded the preparations of this traditional dish, as she took a great deal of pride in her family's Scotch-Irish heritage. Most of the River City-ziens were of English, French, or Swedish stock.

Appalled by his clumsy faux pas – he was _never_ this off his game – Harold rushed to reassure the chagrined lady that it wasn't her cooking that had caused his esophageal distress. But he couldn't talk. No matter how many times he cleared his throat, his vocal chords refused to recover their timbre. It was extremely disconcerting, to be without his silver tongue the moment he needed it most.

Fortunately, Marian was able to smooth things over. "I'm certain that Harold didn't mean it that way, Mrs. Dunlop. Personally, I think your corned beef is delicious, isn't it, ladies?" They all readily agreed with her – no one would have dared to do otherwise. "But the professor woke up with a sore throat this morning, and I do believe it has gotten much worse."

Harold nodded in eager agreement… until Marian further stated, "If you will excuse us, we must find Dr. Pyne immediately."

As the ladies clucked in concern and cooed well wishes for a speedy recovery, Harold tried to protest the course of action the librarian had decreed. But he literally could not, as his feeble whispers were easily drowned out in the cacophony surrounding them. In any case, Marian had him firmly by the arm and was tugging him to his feet. Of course, he was stronger than her and could have refused to rise, but to hunker down like a naughty toddler who refused to go anywhere would have been very poor form. He wasn't about to embarrass himself a _second_ time.

XXX

"It's laryngitis," Dr. Pyne pronounced. "An acute complication of the common cold."

Unable to vocally express his displeasure, Harold scowled. He didn't have time for laryngitis! The Easter Parade was less than a week away, and there was still so much to do. This parade was even more important than today's, as it would be the second official demonstration of his Think System. The eagle-eyed and quick-witted reporter Fred Gallup would once again be travelling all the way from the capital to cover the event for the _Des Moines Register and Leader_. Harold could _not_ afford to be mute for the occasion.

"Oh dear," said Marian, sounding just as worried as he felt. "Will he recover in time for the Easter Parade?"

Dr. Pyne shrugged. "That's entirely up to the professor. Laryngitis normally runs its course in three to five days, but it can be prolonged if the voice is put under great strain to perform." He turned to face Harold with a stern look. "That means no talking, singing, whistling, or engaging in any kind of vocal exercises for three days. Don't even attempt to whisper. All communication should be through writing or gesturing. If you don't follow these instructions to the letter," he said ominously, "you may not recover your voice in time for the Easter Parade."

Harold gulped, winced at the pain of it, and nodded his assent.

"Does he need to remain in bed?" Marian asked. Harold was presently there, as the librarian had insisted he lie down the moment they got home with the doctor. She was so determinedly no-nonsense that he'd thought it best to humor her wishes, even though he felt fine… besides the inflamed throat and the distinct lack of a booming baritone, of course.

To Harold's relief, Dr. Pyne shook his head. "He may go about his normal schedule as long as he feels up to it – and as long as he doesn't develop a fever. But he mustn't strain himself with overwork, so I would recommend staying home the rest of today and tomorrow, in order to rest. He should also drink tea with honey two to three times a day. No rich, coarse, or highly seasoned foods, as they will further irritate his throat and vocal chords. I will drop by on Friday morning to assess his progress. In the meantime," he turned to Harold with another stern look, "don't speak a single word!"

The doctor turned back to Marian. "Any other questions?" he said pleasantly.

"Yes, actually," she said, sounding hesitant, as if she feared she was wandering a bit too far into intimate territory. "Harold and I appear to have caught the exact same cold, as I also woke up with a sore throat this morning – why don't I have laryngitis, as well?"

Harold nodded, both to bolster his wife's confidence and because he'd been wondering this, himself.

The unruffled Dr. Pyne, who'd answered far more delicate questions over the course of his long medical career, merely shrugged. "People's bodies react differently, even when they contract the same disease. One person may suffer complications, while another doesn't." He looked closely at the librarian, as if he was examining her. "It may be a blessing in disguise that you have the same cold, Mrs. Hill, as you won't be likely to develop laryngitis if you haven't already manifested it."

Marian looked relieved, but Harold was still irked. Even if she had the same cold, he would not allow himself to so much as kiss the librarian until he was fully recovered. Because if she was in the delicate condition he suspected, he refused to put her or their child at unnecessary risk.

When the doctor left, Marian went down to the kitchen to make Harold's tea. She thoughtfully brought up a pad and a pencil along with the cup and, out of habit, nearly dropped a kiss on his lips – until he furiously gestured for her to aim for a less dangerous place. Looking disappointed but understanding, she gave him a kiss on the forehead, and left him to his convalescence.

Marian was still wearing her jade green gown with the fetchingly low scalloped neckline, and she still looked good enough to eat. But all he could do was look as she walked out of the room. _So much for early-morning promises_, he thought sullenly, frustrated by a keen sense of unfulfillable longing he hadn't experienced since they were courting. While his appetite for food had all but disappeared, his appetite for pleasure remained as strong as ever. Now that he _knew_ what he was missing, such privation would be doubly difficult to endure.

Harold repressed a sigh, lest it further damage his vocal chords. Instead, he took a sip of tea – and shuddered as his throat once again flared up indignantly at the intrusion of a foreign substance.

It was going to be a long three days.


	2. Tuesday

Harold didn't wake up until Marian brought him his tea with honey, along with some bread and butter. Although he still wasn't able to talk – and he didn't push his luck by so much as attempting a whisper – the swelling in his throat had eased a great deal overnight. Not only was he able to swallow the warm liquid without grimacing, it was actually soothing. The bread was a little grating against his gullet, but not too bad.

But Harold was still quite annoyed by the fact that he couldn't so much as flirt with his scrumptious wife. Today, the librarian wore a fetching tulip skirt of steel-blue and soft gold wool gabardine, complete with a crisp white lingerie blouse and black satin sash that framed her delectable figure to perfection. But the most charming aspect of this ensemble was the six matching gold buttons lined up in two smart rows down the front of her dress, as if they were waiting for their marching orders. If he had not already commissioned for her a magnificent frock to complement his signature band uniform, it would have been the perfect outfit to don for the Easter Parade.

Although Harold couldn't speak, he could still look. And as he looked, he didn't try to suppress the intense longing that was displayed in his expression. He was gratified to see that Marian's cheeks turned the most charming shade of pink as she gazed at him in return, no doubt vividly surmising all the sweet and heated remarks he would have made to her if he could have spoken. However, this only served to further fuel his frustration, as her coquettish but wistful glance reminded him that, due to the precautions he'd insisted they take until the doctor gave him the all clear, all _she_ could do in return was look. Normally, Harold loved _not_ talking with Marian – but this certainly wasn't the kind of _not_ talking he had in mind!

Marian sighed heavily enough for the two of them, walked over to the bed, and dropped a kiss on the music professor's forehead. "How are you feeling this morning, darling?" she asked, both tenderly and solicitously.

Harold shrugged and gave a _so-so_ gesture with his right hand. His left hand snaked around the librarian's waist and pulled her to him so he could kiss her on the cheek, just as sweetly.

Marian gave a throaty laugh. "I see you've recovered _some_ of your spirit."

Harold grinned wickedly at her.

Marian laughed again, this time in exasperation. "Does _nothing_ dampen your enthusiasm for lovemaking?"

Harold gave her the smoldering come-hither look he knew always made her weak in the knees.

Marian pulled out of his embrace. "You need to rest," she insisted – though the severity of her tone was almost completely dampened by the flattered smile that lit up her face.

Harold grabbed his pencil and paper. _I miss you_, he wrote. He drew a little heart, for extra flair.

The librarian laughed a third time, sounding just as wistful as he felt. "I miss you, too, darling. But it's only three days. We've waited much longer than that – remember when we went to Des Moines with Mama for the funeral?"

Harold grimaced. He'd spent the rest of that January attempting to make up for the two full weeks of privation they'd been forced to endure while sharing a bedroom with Mrs. Paroo.

Marian dropped a kiss on his forehead. "I'll be at the library until eleven thirty. Then I'll come home and make you your afternoon tea. Mama sent over enough chicken noodle soup to feed an army, so you can warm a little bit up on the stove if you get hungry this morning. Otherwise, I'll serve you some for lunch."

Harold nodded, and waited until he heard the front door close before getting out of bed.

As a younger man – hell, even just a year ago – he would have flouted the doctor's orders and done exactly what he pleased, even if he had to pay the piper for it (but when the man dances, the piper pays _him_, said the other salesmen on the train). Now that Harold Gregory Hill was no longer a shameless fraud, but a genuine music professor with a great deal riding on the success of his next concert – especially now that a little one was potentially on the way – he wasn't about to do anything that would put all the wonderful things he'd built in jeopardy.

So he _was_ planning on staying home today. But even as an honest man, he would never be the sort who could just laze about in bed. After donning a workaday suit, completing his usual morning ablutions, and drinking the last of his tea, he went downstairs to the music room.

To his chagrin, loafing around the music room seemed just as pointless as lying in bed. There was nothing to do. He couldn't play the trumpet, as that would aggravate his throat and perhaps even strain his vocal chords. He was in no mood to plink at the piano. He really wanted to work, so he wouldn't feel completely useless, but any parade-related preparation could only be done at the emporium. The music had been selected long ago and the choreography had already been planned to the tiniest detail. At this stage, it was drilling that needed doing – the boys' glide step had vastly improved since last August, but it still wasn't quite up to snuff. But there was nothing he could do to improve it from home. And he didn't presently have the ability to improve it at the emporium, either. Marian and Tommy Djilas would be jointly overseeing the rehearsals today, tomorrow, and Thursday in his stead. While he trusted they would be adequate substitutes, it irked him that _he_ wasn't doing the teaching. Especially this close to the big parade!

But there was no use dwelling on what he couldn't change. Harold moved to the parlor, taking _Great Expectations_ with him to keep him company.

XXX

Harold must have been more tired than he realized, for one minute he was reading _Great Expectations_ and glaring at the clock, which seemed to dawdle eternally in the nine o'clock hour – and the next, Marian was bringing him a tray of tea and soup.

Although Harold didn't feel all that hungry, he dutifully ate and drank what was placed in front of him. He had to keep his strength up, after all. As he swallowed his lunch, he blearily glanced at the clock. It was now shortly past noon.

"Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable in bed, darling?" Marian asked when she came to take his empty bowl and cup away, and witnessed the music professor stretching and wincing.

Harold's lower back ached and he had a crick in his neck from falling asleep at an odd angle, but he vigorously shook his head.

Marian's lips quirked slightly, as if she were attempting to hide a smile. "Do as you like, then."

Harold repressed a scowl. There was plenty he would have _liked_ to do, but couldn't. Not being able to talk was a veritable prison.

Although he'd schooled his expression, Marian regarded him with sympathetic eyes, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. "Only two-and-a-half more days, Harold," she reassured him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "I'm off to the emporium. I should be home by four thirty."

After she left, Harold tried to read his book again. But all he could think of was the work he should have been doing to prepare for the Easter Parade. After a decent meal, he was no longer drowsy, so he couldn't count on whiling away the rest of the afternoon insensate. And now the clock seemed to be idling permanently in the one o'clock hour.

Around ten to two, he just couldn't _take_ it anymore, and decided to hell with it, he was going to the emporium.

XXX

The wind was absolutely brutal. It was always brutal in the Midwest, especially in March, but somehow it was ten times worse when one was slightly ill. Harold had heard the wind battering the house and rustling the pines all morning, but as it hadn't directly affected him at the time, he'd paid no mind to it. Now, as he attempted to make his way to the emporium, the wind cut right through him, making him cough as he inhaled the harsh coldness of it. He'd worn a hat to protect his hair and a scarf to protect his throat, but he had to clutch both of these articles to him for dear life as he walked, or they'd be ripped away in the maelstrom. What's more, the blasted wind pierced his gloves, burned the tips of his ears beneath his hat, stung his eyes into tears, and made his nose run like a faucet. After five minutes of walking, he was also pretty sure he no longer had any cheeks.

Normally, none of this would have bothered Harold. He'd been through much worse weather, and with clothing that wasn't half as high quality as what he was wearing now. It was amazing, how much havoc a trifling illness could wreak in a man's constitution! Still, he persevered – he wasn't about to let a few breezes stop him from going where he would.

By the time Harold reached the emporium, he felt like collapsing into a heap – except he was too stiff from the cold to bend. (_You do sit? Your knees bend and all?_ He smiled at the memory.) Fortunately, he met no one on the way to his office, as everyone was currently attending rehearsal in the auditorium. Even better, his office was nice and toasty, just the thing to chase the chill away. Without even bothering to remove so much as his hat, he managed to fold himself onto the sofa, where he reclined fairly comfortably until the shivers wracking his now aching body subsided. Once he recovered his breath and warmth, he would tackle the perpetual mound of paperwork piled on his desk. Although it was definitely his least favorite aspect of the business, it was all he could manage right now, and it was better than doing nothing.

Harold wasn't sure how long he laid on the sofa, as his mind started to drift and wander into a haze, no doubt from all the exertion and sheer force of will it had taken him to get to the emporium. He may even have dozed off a bit. Full alertness didn't return to him until the door to his office opened. Startled, he sat up with a gasp – which quickly turned into a coughing fit.

"Harold!" cried Marian, sounding just as surprised. "What in heaven's name are you doing here?"

Not having his pad and paper handy, the music professor simply shrugged. Becoming aware that there was an uncomfortable sheen of sweat around his forehead, he removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair.

The librarian regarded her wayward husband with a look that was both exasperated and indulgent. "I ought to have known you would try something like this." She switched the light on, and examined him more closely. "You look as pale as death," she said, shaking her head. "It can't have been good for you, walking here in all that wind!"

Harold shrugged again, hoping his expression was nonchalant, even if he was as ashen as his wife claimed. He was still feeling rather dazed from the abrupt jolt out of slumber. He gazed inquiringly at Marian and tapped his wrist.

"It's nearly four o'clock," she informed him. "Rehearsal just ended. What time did you get here?"

Harold thought a moment, and then held up two fingers.

Marian clucked her tongue. "Oh, Harold!"

As out of sorts as he was, he still had the spirit to grin mischievously at her. Hopefully it didn't look as much like a grimace as it felt like.

Thankfully, she smirked in return, and let any further scolding go. "I'm making the final rounds of the building, and then I'll take you home. Why don't you wait for me by the front entrance?"

Standing up and smoothing the wrinkles out of his jacket, Harold did just that. However, he soon regretted taking the librarian up on her suggestion. For he was immediately accosted by Mrs. Shinn and all her ladies, who were there for – well, he wasn't quite sure at this point. The Events Committee spent a lot of time volunteering at the emporium, helping with costumes and other such gewgaws. Marian was the one who oversaw their activities in relation to the boys' band.

But the librarian wasn't around to intervene. And whatever the ladies' reason for being in the vicinity, it had completely fallen by the wayside in their zeal to coo over the ailing music professor, express their deepest sympathies in a clumsy but earnest manner, pester him with superfluous advice, and press dubious home remedies on him.

"My dear Professor Hill!" said Maud Dunlop, who had clearly forgiven him for yesterday's lapse in tongue. "It seems awfully unfair that you should be sick when the snow has finally melted and the first flowers are coming into bloom."

"It is a bit windy and cold for spring today, though," giggled Avis Grubb.

"You poor thing!" Alma Hix piled on. "You must feel just _mired_ in winter."

"Are you taking tea with honey?" asked Eunice Squires, ever the practical one.

"No, you should take tea with ginger," corrected Alma Hix.

"No, you should take slippery elm tea with lemon," insisted Maud Dunlop.

"My mother always recommended gargling with saltwater or vinegar," put in Eunice Squires.

"You could try swallowing a clove of garlic," said Mrs. Shinn in her usual autocratic manner. "I do so every day and have not had a cold for years!"

Maud Dunlop's eyes lit up. "Oh! That reminds me – we in the Dunlop household absolutely swear by my special apple cider vinegar brew for colds. The recipe has been passed down for generations through the ladies on my mother's side. I could drop by with a bottle or two for you tomorrow morning."

Harold had thought that being hemmed in at home all morning was like a prison. He'd thought that walking to the emporium was like navigating a cyclone. In the midst of such endless chatter, he realized that he had not grasped the true meaning of _prison_ or _cyclone_ until now. He was so used to dominating a group wherever he went, effortlessly steering the ebb and flow of conversation exactly to his liking, that he was at a complete loss as to how to handle this well-meaning but overbearing onslaught of attention. Voiceless, he could not so much as interject as the ladies chattered at, over, and around him. And he certainly could not escape – at least, not without looking unforgivably rude. All he could do was nod dumbly and smile politely at each and every inanity that came bubbling and tumbling out of the ladies' mouths, and wait for the tempest to finally blow over or, as was more likely, for Marian to rescue him.

_Is this how ordinary men feel?_ the music professor wondered. While he was well aware that his silver tongue had greased the skids for him throughout his life, he had never fully realized how disconcerting and demoralizing it was to not only be at the mercy of someone else's rhetorical force, but also to lack the ability to do a damn thing about it.

At last, Marian finished her final inspection of the emporium. With a tact and efficiency Harold found himself downright envying in his wretched state, the librarian shooed away the ladies as expertly as she ever did Mrs. Paroo's boisterous chickens out of the vegetable garden. Though she wasn't able to avoid the promise of Mrs. Dunlop's apple cider concoction, it was a small price to pay for extricating him without ruffling any feathers.

Nestled against Marian's soft warmth, Harold found the walk home a lot more pleasant, despite the wind being just as biting. And when they entered the front hall of their charming Victorian and disrobed their outer garments, the librarian looked so divinely tousled that he opened his mouth to tell her so – and then snapped it shut when he remembered he wasn't allowed to talk. What's more, he could surmise from the congestion lodged in his throat that he'd only be able to emit the most guttural of grackle squawks if he tried.

In her bustle to unbundle herself, Marian hadn't noticed his near-slip, so he couldn't even give her a heated look or mischievous grin to let her know exactly what was on his mind.

His mood souring, Harold scowled. This she _did_ notice and, with a look of deep concern, pulled him to the sofa in the parlor. Realizing how weak he felt, he didn't resist, not even feebly, as she laid him down and tucked a blanket over him. When Marian served him his soup and tea, he ate and drank all of it – though mechanically, as he didn't have much of an appetite. And when she led him upstairs and tucked him into bed shortly afterward, he went as meekly as a lamb.


	3. Wednesday

Even after his reformation from smooth-talking charlatan to legitimate bandleader, Harold Hill considered it a point of pride that he never surrendered to anything. On the contrary – he _chose_. He chose Marian Paroo. He chose Winthrop and the boys' band. He chose River City. He chose Iowa. He chose love, respectability, and a permanent home.

But he had not chosen laryngitis. And yet, he was forced to succumb to it. Of course, this wasn't the first time he had weathered illness or injury. But with his robust constitution, silver tongue, and canny instinct for leaving town before it was too late, such peccadillos were few and far between. Harold always managed to get to a hotel room before anyone – save his trusty sidekick Marcellus Washburn – saw him at his weakest, and hole up in seclusion until the worst of his malaise passed. It had been quite awhile since he experienced such a major infection – years, even – and he had almost forgotten how it felt. As ever, the spirit was more than willing to fight this disease, but the flesh had proven spectacularly weak. It was thoroughly galling.

Or at least it would have been, if he wasn't so doggone _tired_. Harold slept even later the next morning, achieving only as much consciousness as was strictly required to drink his tea. The bread and butter were left entirely untouched on the breakfast tray, and he didn't even have the energy to note what Marian was wearing. Something pale pink and charcoal gray swam across his vision as she bustled about the room. But any further details were completely lost on him as he slipped back into slumber.

A minute later (or perhaps an hour, how should he know?), Harold became dimly aware of Marian's low but concerned voice hovering somewhere above him.

"He barely woke up enough to drink his tea, and he didn't eat anything at all! I'm not sure I'll be able to get him to wake up for lunch."

Harold longed to reassure his worried wife that he was just fine, but somehow, he couldn't muster up the will to so much as twitch an eyelid.

Fortunately, Dr. Pyne's no-nonsense, steady voice did the job for him. "He doesn't seem to have a fever" – Harold felt a warm, firm palm press his forehead – "but he probably pushed himself too hard yesterday and is paying the piper today."

Harold dearly wanted to protest that the piper pays _him_, but he wasn't allowed to talk, even if he could have found the energy to do so.

"Let him be for now," the doctor continued. "Sometimes sleep is nature's best medicine. Monitor his temperature throughout the afternoon, and call me if he worsens – or won't properly wake up for dinner."

As if waiting for this hard-won permission to finally _rest_, Harold's body succumbed to full unconsciousness once more.

XXX

Harold's body may have been at ease, but his mind certainly wasn't. Almost from the moment he dropped off to sleep, he was treated to a litany of all the ways he would have disgraced himself from the moment he stepped off the train into River City, if he hadn't had his charming voice.

He couldn't tell the townspeople there was trouble in River City.

He couldn't ask the aloof but fetching librarian if they'd met before.

He couldn't thrill and mesmerize everyone in the gymnasium about Seventy Six Trombones leading the Big Parade.

He couldn't conduct the quarreling school board in song or flirt with the frosty librarian in Madison Picnic Park.

He couldn't charm the suspicious Mrs. Shinn and her ladies into liking him and revealing more about Marian Paroo.

He couldn't knock Marian off balance in the library with his loud declarations of love and discover that there was a small spark of genuine attraction to him beneath her icy exterior.

He couldn't sell Mrs. Paroo a cornet for Winthrop in order to bring the sad, mute boy out of his shell.

He couldn't come to Tommy and Zaneeta's defense in the Candy Kitchen, or have his first real conversation with Marian.

He couldn't trade rumors with Marian on her front porch.

He couldn't confess to Marian on the footbridge.

He couldn't publicly defend Marian from the poisonous machinations of Miss Harper.

He couldn't defend his hard-earned teaching credentials, his boys' band, or his lovely librarian from Fred Gallup's meddling charms at the grand parade.

Of course, Harold would not have made it much farther than a few steps off the train into River City if he'd been unable to talk. And he certainly would not be where he was today if he had failed at any of these crucial junctures in his journey from swindler to music professor. But his brain was far too busy reeling at each defeat for him to realize that he was merely under the spell of the maddeningly inconsistent illogic of dreams.

And the worst was yet to come. There he was, poised to lead the boys' band in the Easter Parade. To his chagrin, they started off horribly and never recovered, because he couldn't instruct them how to improve. Fred Gallup loudly and rudely sneered at the lackluster performance, declared the previous success of the Think System a lucky fluke, and promised to destroy him. The reporter's discontent spread through the gathered crowd like a wildfire, and the voiceless music professor couldn't so much as offer the feeblest of rebuttals. Throughout this parade of humiliation, there was Marian, regarding him with expressions that ranged from amusement, to disappointment, to disdain, to downright loathing. That was bad enough, but when she disappeared completely, leaving him to the mercy of the menacing reporter and furious River City-Ziens – who were now approaching him with the dreaded tar and feathers – it was intolerable. He couldn't even scream as they descended upon him.

It was this final indignity that gave Harold the will to not only shake himself awake, but sit up abruptly in bed.

Marian's arms were immediately around him. "It's all right, Harold."

After such an ordeal, he couldn't _not_ talk. "Marian," he rasped. He could talk! Well, almost – the first syllable came out surprisingly strong, but on the "i" his voice cracked and fizzled out like a firecracker, rendering the "an" almost completely inaudible.

"Sssh," she soothed, handing him his pad and pencil. "Use this."

Harold stared dumbly at the writing implements, not sure where to begin. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but it would take reams of paper.

Marian thoughtfully provided an opening for him. "How are you feeling?"

Harold considered. _Not great_, he wrote. _Bad dreams._

"Poor dear," she said sympathetically, tightening her embrace. "But they were only dreams."

She was absolutely right, and he could not have agreed with her more. But still, they nagged at him, and he wrote, _Who am I, without my voice?_

The librarian lovingly smoothed back a tendril of hair that had fallen over his forehead. "You are Harold Gregory Hill."

Harold's head drooped. He would never have been this persona, this _man_, without his voice. Hell, he would never have passed muster as an honest salesman, let alone a smooth-talking swindler who could sell ice to an Eskimo! Instead, he'd have joined the ranks of the dimwitted and uninspiring men he'd alternately pitied, disdained, and stolen from. Without his gift of gab, he'd be nothing but a witless nobody stuck in a tedious and grueling job, eking his way through life with a gnawing dissatisfaction and the inability to rise above his wretched station. He'd be _ordinary_. And for a man who was accustomed to living a life of distinction, being ordinary was almost as bad as being dead.

As if the librarian had heard his thoughts, she cupped his face in her hands and brought his dejected gaze up to meet hers. "I know that this must be especially unsettling for you. Losing your voice must feel like having your right arm cut off. But listen to me, Harold – you are much more than your silver tongue or your ability to sell," she said with the same spirited determination that had made him fall in love with her. "Two of your most triumphant moments did not require speech of any kind – when you first conducted the boys in Beethoven's _Minuet in G_ in July, and when you led the grand parade down Main Street in August. Your silver tongue may have gotten you far, but it couldn't complete the job. In the end, what you achieved was through honest and diligent toil. And because of that, I have no doubt that the Easter Parade will be just as brilliant of a triumph."

Marian leaned in, as if she was going to kiss him full on the mouth. When he started to balk, out of concern for her health, she said, "You heard the doctor – I already have the same cold. I can't catch laryngitis from you. And you _need_ this. Please, let me give it to you."

A better man than Harold would have had trouble resisting such a barefaced entreaty. And it didn't help matters that, once again, she was absolutely right. After nearly two full days with only the slenderest of caresses to soothe him, he ached for it. Even as a conman who eschewed intimacy, he'd always been a very physical man, the kind of man who needed to touch others, and be touched in return. Much of the way he had touched others had been calculated to ingratiate, bamboozle, and overwhelm, but there was a kernel of him that _needed_ this kind of connection more than he'd wanted to admit at the time. Once he and Marian had married and were finally free to explore whatever fancy tickled their imaginations, he realized how truly starved he'd been, and he never wanted to go back to those days. Now, he readily embraced this need.

So when Marian kissed him, he let her. More than that – he surrendered.

Although they'd shared far more passionate kisses, there was something about this one that left him knocked for a loop. She kissed him softly and carefully at first, and then tenderly and deeply as he opened beneath her. As she kissed him, her fingers lightly caressed his face, sending the most electrifying tingles up and down his jawline. Sickness had rendered his body extremely sensitive – in his weakened state, the pleasure sparked by her touch was so exquisite it was almost unbearable.

When Marian finally lifted her lips from his, he was unabashedly trembling. Part of it was from desire, and part of it was from illness. But part of it was from something else, something warm and wonderful that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It warmed him to the very depths of his soul, even as he shivered. He felt that somehow, Marian had given him back himself. It didn't matter that he couldn't talk. She understood him perfectly.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "It's nearly dinnertime."

Harold realized he was famished. He nodded eagerly.

So Marian brought him his tea and soup – plus two pieces of bread and butter. His appetite having returned in spades, Harold ate heartily, and even requested a second bowl of soup. Although his nose ran from breathing in the steam of the hot liquid and he still couldn't taste much, it was the most nourishing meal he'd had in days. He was also gratified to see his wife's pleasure at his progress.

"Your color is starting to return, along with your appetite," she said happily.

Harold's keenness to sample other delights was starting to return, as well. He eyed the librarian very appreciatively as she donned an empire-waist negligee/peignoir set with short bell sleeves and a cream-colored silk ribbon sash – the fine cotton fabric trimmed with Valenciennes lace was so thin as to be nearly sheer, which gave him a tantalizing view of the curves of her breasts and thighs. But as he was not yet in tip-top enough form to express his appreciation as thoroughly as he would have liked, he simply nestled into Marian's embrace as she slid beneath the bedcovers and wrapped her arms around him.

That night, his sleep was deep and dreamless.


	4. Thursday

The next morning, Harold happened to wake up right as Marian was bringing up his tea, soup, and toast. To his relief and delight, he felt miles better than he had on Tuesday or Wednesday. While he was still somewhat congested, the swelling in his throat had finally disappeared. He suspected he might actually succeed in emitting more than a discordant squawk if he tried, but as he still wasn't allowed to talk, he didn't press his luck.

He did grin widely at his wife in greeting. As usual, Marian looked absolutely delicious. She was wearing what Harold fondly liked to refer to as her "delectable adversary" ensemble – the striking green-and-gold gown she had on when he loudly sang his love to her in the library last summer. He'd spent many a night afterward dreaming of undoing that gold bowtie at her throat. Of course, they had piled up a whole lot more mutually pleasant yesterdays connecting to that gown during their subsequent courtship – and he had actually gotten to untie that tantalizing bow a time a two after their marriage – but first impressions were awfully enduring.

After placing the breakfast tray next to him, Marian dropped a warm kiss on his forehead, followed by an even warmer one on his lips – which quickly turned heated when he wrapped his arms snugly around her and kissed her back with all the fervor and stamina he'd been lacking the past few days.

"_Someone_ is on the road to recovery," she gasped when they finally parted for air. The joy and relief in her eyes were evident, and there was not the slightest scolding note in her tone. "Dr. Pyne should be pleased by your progress when he comes by tomorrow morning."

Concerned by the level of worry his dear wife had clearly harbored over his convalescence and wanting nothing more than to set her mind at ease, Harold nodded as vigorously as he'd kissed her and guided the librarian's hand beneath the bedcovers to rest on his lap, so she could feel for herself the incontrovertible proof of his renewed vigor.

Marian blushed as deeply and thoroughly as a maid, which he found both endearing and arousing. Especially as her response was anything but maidenly: "It's too bad I have to leave for the library in fifteen minutes – otherwise, I could most certainly do something about _this_." She hadn't removed her hand from him, and he was twitching like mad beneath her touch. He was so hard it probably would have taken her a whole lot less than fifteen minutes to make him come.

But Marian didn't start stroking. Instead, she bit her lip and looked at him, as if she wasn't certain whether she ought to proceed any further. Harold would have been chagrined, but his hunch was that her hesitation wasn't due to bright-eyed, blushing reticence – of late, she'd grown quite bold in pleasing him below the belt with both her hands and mouth whenever the opportunity and inclination arose. In all likelihood, she was too apprehensive about the state of his health to make such an energetic – and potentially damaging – move.

Normally, Harold's carnal instincts would have urged him onward, consequences be damned. His gorgeous wife was touching him shamelessly and intimately, looking at him with eyes wide with wanting – how could he resist such an alluring siren song? But there was apprehension in her gaze, as well – too much to ignore. The Easter Parade was almost upon them, and he really needed to be in peak physical form for the festivities. As much as he loathed putting off pleasure, he should rest for one more day before attempting to make love. Because he knew he would not be content with Marian doing all the pleasuring. He'd _have_ to reciprocate, and he was only ninety percent sure he had the endurance to see things through – instead of his usual one hundred and ten!

With a sigh, Harold covered Marian's uncertain hand with his and gently eased it out from under the bedcovers. _Tonight_, he mouthed, before pressing a heated kiss to the center of her palm.

"Tonight," she solemnly echoed, kissing the tips of his fingers in return.

XXX

Once Marian had departed for the library, Harold devoured his toast, soup, and tea. The hot liquids eased his congestion even further, and he suddenly became quite conscious of the rather pungent olfactory reminder that he hadn't bathed since Sunday evening. It was indeed a good thing they hadn't gotten too carried away earlier! Even if he was a man of varied and occasionally disreputable tastes when it came to lovemaking, he had always been scrupulous about personal hygiene, in both himself and his selection of lovers. Although it was not always possible to be so choosy in the course of a con, the former flimflam man did his utmost to avoid rankness and venereal disease whenever he could. While sidestepping the latter was thankfully no longer a concern, escaping the former was something he continued to pride himself on. The lovely librarian also lived by the maxim that cleanliness was next to godliness and, even after several months of marriage, continued to be just as scrupulous about her toilette as she had been when they were courting. Harold was immensely flattered that even though she had seen him at his most naked and vulnerable – as he had likewise seen her – Marian still thought him worthy of such effort.

After a long and luxurious bath, where he meticulously scrubbed away the last lingering vestiges of illness and indolence from his body, Harold dressed himself in a pair of brown silk pajamas he knew Marian found particularly fetching. As an additional invitation, he donned the forest-green velour bathrobe he'd sported the first night she kissed him below the belt. In the course of combing his hair, he purposely left a curl loosely dangling over his forehead, to give himself the tousled flair he knew drove his dear little librarian wild. For a finishing touch, he applied a splash of bay rum to his cheeks after he'd shaved and brushed his teeth. Finding himself hungry after completing these ablutions, he went down to the kitchen to make himself a mid-morning snack.

In the course of his food preparation, he came across a pile of get-well cards from his boys, as well as a sweet little note from Marian that simply read, _Until tonight_, along with a heart similar to the one he'd drawn for her on Tuesday. Although her message hit just the right note to send his pulse racing, he was, in truth, rather frustrated that he still couldn't _talk_ to her. For all that he wanted and needed the physical connection between them, there was nothing like that wonderful sense of comfort and closeness he got from their deep conversations.

As Harold gazed pensively at the pile of cards, he was suddenly struck by an idea. He may not have been able to talk, but that wasn't the only way he could let Marian know what was on his mind. Racing to the music room and rifling through his desk drawers, he unearthed a blank notebook and brought it upstairs. Ensconcing himself in bed, he spent the rest of the morning writing down every single thing he'd wanted to say to Marian since he was given the decree to remain silent on Monday. His retorts to her banter. How delectable she looked in her St. Patrick's Day gown and her tulip skirt. His bad dreams. How much he was anticipating not just tonight, but also tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that when he could finally talk to her again. Anything and everything he could think of, he included.

It wasn't too bad, resting in bed. A man got used to it, after awhile. His cold was definitely on the mend – the only bothersome symptom remaining, outside of the lack of his voice, was a perpetually runny nose. In the course of the morning, he must have soaked through a dozen of the monogrammed handkerchiefs his wife had so thoughtfully embroidered for him last Christmas.

The purge of so much congestion did have its positive side – Harold almost fully tasted lunch when it was served to him. He certainly tasted the long, soft kisses that Marian brought along with it. She was delicious. Soon, he would eat all of her. Ravenously.

The music professor had furtively secreted the notebook under his pillow as soon as he'd heard the front door open. When the librarian left the house to go to the emporium for the afternoon, he pulled out the impromptu journal to describe all the thoughts that came to his mind when she kissed him at lunch. Once Harold finally ran out of steam, he put the notebook on the bedside table and willed himself to take a nap. He wanted to make extra sure he was in fine form for all the _not_ talking they were going to do tonight.

XXX

When Harold awoke, it was early evening. From the clinking and scraping sounds emanating from the first floor, he surmised that Marian was in the kitchen cooking dinner. After a solid day of anticipation, he was ready to jump out of his skin. So without further preamble, he got out of bed, picked up the notebook, and bounded downstairs.

Marian was indeed at the stove, stirring a pot of potato soup. Harold's stomach rumbled in approval – something a bit more substantial, but not so seasoned that it would aggravate his insides. The librarian turned happily at his approach, but before she could so much as say hello, he presented her with his handiwork.

Her warm beam fading into an expression of curiosity, she opened the journal and began to read. It was better than a show, watching the play of emotions on her face as she realized precisely what he had given her. When she finally looked at him again, her eyes gleaming in that beautiful way they did whenever she was deeply touched by something he had said or done, he simply gazed back at her with unvarnished longing. Wherever they went from here, it was entirely up to her.

Marian caught him in a hug so fierce that it almost sent him into a fit of coughing. Fortunately, he managed to stave it off, as the last thing he wanted right now was for her to treat him with kid gloves.

"I've missed you _so_ much, Harold," she cried. Unable to express a similar sentiment in words, he held her just as tightly in return. "I hardly know if I want to read everything you wrote, or go upstairs with you right away," she said into his shoulder. Such a bald-faced admission sent his already racing pulse into overdrive, but that wasn't the only appetite of his that was clamoring for attention. When Harold's stomach growled, the librarian laughed and ended their embrace. "I suppose we ought to eat dinner, first."

So they did. Marian perused the notebook as she ate, though she normally eschewed reading at the table. Not only did she consider it rude, heaven forbid she accidentally spill something on one of her precious books! Harold had heard this lecture many times. But he saw the longing way she eyed his journal as she set the table and dished out their soup, so he took it upon himself to insist that she indulge herself by placing the notebook next to her bowl and gesturing vigorously for her to enjoy. This would allow her to sate her curiosity immediately, as the librarian was a fast reader and would no doubt reach the end of his composition by the time she finished her meal. Such expediency was necessary because once dinner was over, he had an idea that they were going to be otherwise occupied for the rest of the evening.

Most unusually, Harold wasn't certain as to how exactly they would be occupied, as not being able to speak robbed him of the ability to direct or greatly influence the festivities. Once upon a time, this lack of control would have terrified him, and he would have fled from such a compromising situation. Now, he found the novelty of not knowing exactly what was going to happen downright thrilling. Because he trusted Marian. He trusted her more than anyone he had ever known, including his steadfastly loyal right-hand man Marcellus Washburn. Whatever she had planned for them, it was sure to be a delectable treat. He had absolutely no doubt that she would seize this opportunity to shine.

Indeed, as soon as they'd eaten enough to quell their hunger for food, Marian closed the notebook, put the leftover soup in the icebox, cleared the table, piled the dishes in the sink, and gave Harold a smoldering come-hither glance that unequivocally spelled out her amorous intentions. Taking the music professor by the hand, she led him right upstairs with the same captivating confidence she'd displayed that snowy night in January. Once they were ensconced in their bedroom, Harold gazed at his wife with just as much awe and adoration as he had then.

Tonight, the librarian worked with even greater efficiency and zeal to divest him of his clothing. Since that heady winter evening, she had added many more delightful maneuvers to her repertoire. Once she stripped Harold and brought him to lie supine on their bed, she backed away and undressed for him. She knew all the little poses and gestures that made his cock twitch in frenetic anticipation – everything from unpinning her hair and letting her golden curls cascade down her back, to slowly untying the gold bow at her throat, to providing an excellent view of her backside as she bent over to undo her garters and roll down her stockings, to saving her drawers for the very last moment before letting them slip to the ground. It was also thoroughly enchanting to see that Marian received a significant amount of pleasure from watching his body's enthusiastic reactions to her peep show, which was far more enticing and erotic than anything he'd ever seen in a machine. He got to watch the most gorgeous woman he'd ever met or would ever meet shiver and smile and gaze at him with heavy-lidded eyes – and this was all just for _him_.

When Marian finally came to bed and covered his body with hers, Harold just couldn't help himself. After all that visual and now physical stimulation, he let out an involuntary groan. Unsurprisingly, this groan was hoarse, but that could have been from sheer desire as much as from laryngitis.

"Sssh," the librarian remonstrated, silencing him with a kiss. "Before we go any further, I wanted to let you know that I did give the matter of your… expressing appreciation considerable thought. I don't want to risk overtaxing your voice, so I thought you could squeeze my shoulder whenever you want me to continue, and tug my hand when you want me to stop." She bit her lip, looking endearingly uncertain. "What do you think?"

Taking a deep, shaky breath, lest the temptation to moan her name get the better of him, Harold nodded his assent and buried his head in the crook of her neck. As he silently reveled in the warm fullness of her curves against him, she kissed him softly, starting at his jaw and gradually working her way down his body. It was absolutely exquisite – he squeezed her shoulder so tightly at times he feared he'd leave a bruise. Fortunately, this rough handling didn't seem to bother the librarian. Looking both pleased and aroused by her prowess in making him melt beneath her, she continued to kiss him thoroughly and skillfully in all the places that she clearly knew drove him wild.

When Marian finally took him in her mouth after all that maddening teasing, he once again couldn't help letting out an audible groan. At this juncture, the librarian's mouth was far too occupied to scold him, though he heard a muffled giggle and felt her lips quiver briefly against his cock before getting down to business in earnest. As she steadily coaxed him to climax, Harold thought about all the ways he was going to reciprocate when he got the chance. He would have to add yet another passage to the book. Or perhaps he would save up these words and whisper them into her ear when he was able to talk again.

Usually, Marian withdrew right before she finished him. In fact, he had encouraged her to do so from the very first time she'd been so bold as to please him this way. It wasn't that he wouldn't have welcomed the eroticism of her mouth remaining on him as he finished, but he didn't wish to overwhelm her sensibilities so soon in their marriage. Tonight, she was clearly itching to try something new and different, and stayed right where she was, avidly swallowing each and every last drop of him as he came. Harold had already been gasping with release, and her boldness took his breath away even more. When she finally looked up at him, looking pleased and stunned by her own audacity, he pulled her down to him for a hard kiss to demonstrate his ringing endorsement of her actions.

Normally, this tryst would have been a mere prelude to a long, heated night of lovemaking – especially after Marian had taken yet another unabashed step from blushing rose to self-assured lover. But for once, Harold did not have the vigor to pursue anything more. So he simply lay there, boneless and sated, and grinned at his deliciously disheveled wife, who beamed warmly at him in return. Tonight couldn't have been more perfect. The only sour note was not being able to sigh, moan, and scream for her. Failing that, he wanted nothing more than to make _her_ sigh, moan, and scream. Finding Marian's hand, he traced her palm with his thumb until she moaned his name and pressed even closer to him.

_Remember when I did this that warm summer day and you started to thaw for me?_ he thought, gazing intently at her.

Although Marian could not read his mind, she correctly surmised that he was up to something. "What would you like me to do now, Harold?" she asked with a knowing smile.

He traced several letters, one by one, on her palm. _Scream for me._

The excited shudder that ran through Marian once she comprehended his words made him hard again, so much so that Harold was tempted to make love to her in earnest. Instead, he stuck to his original plan, his hand running provocatively over her curves until it eventually found its way between her legs. He gently traced the warm silk softness of the inside of her thighs until he was up, up, up and inside of her, one and then two fingers deep. Entranced, he watched the librarian's pupils dilate and her kissable crimson lips fall open into that delectable little _o_ he always loved to see. Even better, he heard her sighs, moans, and then screams of heedless abandon as she came beneath the ministrations of his clever fingers. Once he had brought her to ecstasy a time or two, he rolled her onto her back and rapaciously kissed his way down her body. The weather was still cold enough for her to cover up without suspicion, so he had no compunction about leaving several love bites in his wake. As he marked her, he knew beyond a doubt that she was deriving nothing but pleasure from the possessive liberties his mouth was taking – she pleaded, howled, and even commanded him to keep going, until his head was finally in her lap and he was tasting her as deeply and thoroughly as she'd consumed him.

By that point, Harold had gotten so hard that he had to do _something_ to ease his own wanting. Unfortunately, he couldn't risk thrusting into Marian, even as she writhed and arched so gorgeously supine beneath him. He couldn't even chance having her ride astride him – a position he found greatly appealing, as she was never so unabashed in her lovemaking as when she was perched atop him setting the pace of their rhythm. (While he was a man who liked to be on top of any situation, he was discovering with Marian that, on occasion, he actually relished ceding control in the bedroom.) In any case, he was so hot for her that he wouldn't be able to stop himself from groaning and even shouting her name continuously as they moved together in what was sure to be a frantic and ravenous pace. If he did that tonight, he wouldn't be able to talk tomorrow. So he reached down and stroked himself to completion as he finished Marian with gusto.

When she came back to herself and realized what he had done, she leaned down and gently, almost apologetically, kissed the tip of his cock. He shivered and twitched at her caress, but did not rise to the occasion. Apparently, he was done… for the time being, anyway. As was Marian – she was giving him that dreamy, doe-eyed look that indicated she was not too far from slumber, herself.

So they wrapped their arms around each other and clung together in sated silence. Harold felt exhausted, but pleasantly so. One more good night's sleep and he would be as right as rain. And then, once Dr. Pyne gave him the go-ahead, he would hold nothing back. He would give Marian everything of himself, in both word and deed. He would surrender. And he would do it just as freely, joyfully, and shamelessly as she yielded herself to him.


	5. Friday

"Open your mouth and state your full name, please," said Dr. Pyne.

Harold cleared his throat. Marian barely dared to breathe. She had waited as eagerly for this moment as he had.

"Harold Gregory Hill," the music professor said, slowly and smoothly. He grinned. "Well, what do you know? I'm back!"

Admittedly, his voice was still a touch husky, but that could have been from disuse as much as illness. Thankfully, Dr. Pyne seemed unconcerned by the slight lingering hoarseness. He smiled and instructed, "You may speak again, Professor Hill, but try not to overdo it. No singing or shouting until Sunday. Continue to drink your tea, and get a good night's sleep tonight and tomorrow night. You should be in fine form for the parade."

After Dr. Pyne packed up and left, Marian turned to Harold. He was still reclining idly on the parlor sofa and regarding her with a suggestive gleam in his eye. "It's Good Friday, my dear little librarian. The library is closed and there's no band rehearsal at the emporium, either. We have the whole day to ourselves – a very good Friday, indeed!"

Normally, she would have teased him for thinking she needed the reminder spelled out so brazenly, but it was just so good to hear him _talk_ that she let him have the last word… for now.

Although Harold looked like he had plenty of ideas for how he would have liked the pass the day with her, Marian was already two steps ahead of him. After making sure the front door was locked, she walked over to the sofa. When she reached the music professor, she didn't just sit in his lap, she straddled him. As ever, her dashing husband proved to be the quickest of studies – his mouth immediately met hers for a deep and ravenous kiss, and she felt him grow hard beneath her.

When she moaned at that, Harold broke their kiss to look at her. "I want you, Marian," he said, his voice so low it was practically a growl. "Right here, right now."

Oh, how she had missed that dulcet baritone! Nodding eagerly, Marian stood up to twitch the parlor drapes shut and remove only as much clothing as she required to do the deed. Fortunately, she was wearing a simple lingerie gown. Unlike last night, she did not dawdle – she was shaking too much with desire to draw out the preamble to lovemaking. Her dress, chemise, and drawers came off as fast as she could manage with her trembling fingers, as Harold likewise fumbled to undo his belt, pull down his trousers and drawers, and kick them off along with his shoes.

Marian moaned again when she saw his erection standing gloriously tall and proud for _her_, and she practically pounced on him. She was so wet that he easily slipped inside of her as she straddled his lap once more. Leaning in and giving her neck a hard kiss that made her cry out, he grabbed her hips and thrust into her, and they writhed together with all the pent-up fervor they'd had to repress last night.

As Harold made her come, again and again, Marian sobbed in relief as well pleasure – she had wanted this so badly ever since Monday morning, when he'd given her those passionate but careful love-bites and promised her that there would be much more to come as soon as they could manage to be alone. Her ecstasy was even more heightened by his delicious voice continuously breathing, sighing, and groaning her name and other heated endearments in her ear – the sweetest song she'd ever heard him sing to her. She would never take this tune for granted again.

Their coupling was wonderful – everything she'd been dreaming of all week, and more – and it was over almost before she knew it. Harold groaned loudly and unabashedly as he finished, and buried his head in the crook of her neck with a happy sigh.

As they continued to cling together, Marian was alarmed to realize she was still shaking with sobs. It wasn't the first time she'd cried – lately, it seemed that emotion often overwhelmed her when they made love. What in heaven's name was the matter with her? She had to get a hold of herself!

When Harold gently nudged her to look at him, his dazed smile turned to a look of dismay. "Marian! I haven't hurt you in any way, have I?"

Now it was Marian who couldn't talk. So she shook her head vigorously, tears continuing to stream down her cheeks.

"Oh, my dear little librarian," he said soothingly, and brought out one of his crisp monogrammed handkerchiefs to wipe her tears away.

"I'm not sure what's come over me," she hiccoughed, when she finally managed to calm down enough to speak. Embarrassed by her stunning lack of control, she buried her head in his shoulder before admitting, "I was so worried about you!"

For a few long moments, Harold simply held her, rubbing her back soothingly with his warm and steady hands as she collected herself. Then, once her trembling subsided, he gently cupped her chin with two fingers and lifted her head to meet his gaze. "Why don't you tell me all about it, darling."

When Harold was diagnosed with laryngitis, Marian had been concerned but not too anxious, especially after Dr. Pyne assured them the music professor would recover in time to lead the Easter Parade if he rested his voice. (A very small part of her was even amused by the irony of his predicament, though of course she did her best to hide this from her ailing husband, whose pride clearly smarted along with his body.) But after how ashen and weak that foolhardy walk in the wind left him on Tuesday, followed by his interminable sleep on Wednesday, she grew steadily more and more terrified that she was at risk of actually losing him. 

Marian tried to convince herself that she was being ridiculous. It seemed impossible that a man who possessed such enviable vim and vigor could be extinguished by a silly little cold! But then again, Harold was never the sort of man who slept in like that. As far as she could tell, he never slept more than four to six hours a night, as a rule. For him to sleep seven, eight, nine, ten, twelve, fourteen hours straight was unheard of. Even after Dr. Pyne reassured her that her husband wasn't in any danger, she couldn't completely shake the horrible fear that took hold of her in the long afternoon of vigil that followed the doctor's visit.

Rationally, Marian knew she was likely to outlive her beloved music professor. But there was something in her, something deep down in the very core of her soul, that recoiled at the sheer _wrongness_ of Harold dying before she did. Even as her rational mind tried to point out it was the natural order of things that a man who was sixteen years his wife's senior would, in all likelihood, predecease her – after all, Papa was gone while Mama still endured – her heart just could not fathom living in a world without Harold in it.

While the librarian monitored her deeply slumbering husband closely throughout the day, she tried to remain calm and composed, as his breathing was steady and he never turned feverish. But whenever the image of herself as a widow threatened to intrude upon the lovely dream-bubble she'd constructed of "walk and love him, 'til I die," panic overwhelmed her to such a degree that she almost collapsed into tears. As the afternoon waned into early evening, it became more and more of a herculean task not to give into the temptation to lose her composure. Even if she somehow found the strength to be as resilient and indomitable as her mother was in the face of such devastating heartbreak, Marian was wholly unprepared to lose her husband so soon. She thought they'd have at least two whole decades together – and maybe even longer – before she had to face the harsh reality of life alone.

When Harold finally – finally! – woke up, talked to her (at least, as best as he could through the written word), and then heartily ate a proper dinner, she felt so overjoyed that, once again, she'd had to repress the inclination to weep. It would have been terribly ridiculous of her to fall apart _now_. Especially since in the end, there had been absolutely nothing to worry about. It was Friday morning and here Harold was, looking as robust and rejuvenated as he ever did after a spirited bout of lovemaking. This helped steady Marian a great deal as she fully confessed the true depths of her dread on Wednesday. "We haven't piled up nearly enough lovely yesterdays for me to accept losing you." She paused and swallowed, as her throat was thickening and her eyes were welling up again. "And it occurred to me that I could do more – so much more – to make today worth remembering."

After she'd told him everything that was in her heart the past week, Harold just looked at her, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, before he finally responded. "Marian, it occurs to me that I've been very selfish." She was just about to protest that he'd proven to be the dearest and most unselfish of husbands she ever could have wished to Venus for, but he held up his hand to stay her tongue. "I've allowed myself to get too overscheduled with the band, what with Saint Patrick's Day and Easter falling so closely together this year. It's no wonder we got two colds in one month! And then I resisted the rest I needed to recover until my body finally forced me to pause. I'm so used to going, going, going, and not having to consider anyone else's feelings if anything happens to me. But I have to start thinking about more than just the Think System – you're my wife, and I promised to take care of you, 'til death do us part. And I'll be damned if I do anything that hastens my rendezvous with eternity." He took her hands in his and squeezed them. "So you have my solemn promise that from now on, I'm going to take one full day off a week – not just for you, but for _us_. I know we spent so many long and wonderful Saturdays together this past winter, but we stopped doing that once the snow melted, and we shouldn't let that go. We _can't_ let that go. Because you're not the only one who can no longer face the idea of a life without love." He paused and swallowed, as if he was marshalling his courage for a major confession of his own. When he spoke again, in a low voice, it wasn't his usual velvety purr of seduction, but one of the most fervent and solemn tones she had ever heard from him: "Marian… I need you."

Over the course of their marriage, as well as during their courtship, Harold had told her he loved her countless times. But Marian remembered only one time when he told her he needed her – it was on their wedding night, just before they made love for the first time. (When he was still a conman, he'd loudly and publicly claimed he needed her badly, but that didn't count, even though it had turned out to be true.)

Of course, Marian had said it right back, because it just was as true for her as it was for him. And then, like him, she had not dared to ever say it again. Love was easy – almost too easy – to acknowledge and declare. Love didn't demand anything, it simply felt. Marian well knew how possible it was, if not precisely enjoyable, to love without seeking any promises or even reciprocation. As passionate and intense as her love for Harold was, it had never muddled her sense of practicality – knowing what kind of man he was, she was prepared to let him go that night on the footbridge when she confessed her love, and for quite awhile afterward. After they had both owned up to falling love with each other, they continued to pride themselves on their personal independence, even as they steadily worked to build a life together.

But yesterday, for the first time since the charming and bombastic music professor had marched into town, she realized how _not_ ready she was to let him go. Marian was not exactly sure when she crossed the threshold from self-sacrificing love into abject need – though if she had to guess, it was most likely that afternoon in the cornfield, two weeks before their wedding, when she told Harold things she never, ever thought she would reveal to another living soul. When she saw the love and longing in his eyes deepen, rather than retreat, she knew she had found the man who not only understood her, but accepted her exactly as she was and, what's more, would fiercely protect her from harm to the best of his ability. She hadn't been expecting a white knight, but she'd found one, all the same. In that moment, she couldn't fathom ever going back to the lonely solitude she'd once endured, whether as a spinster or a widow.

Still, although Harold had indeed proved his devotion to her ten times over since his reformation, and with the same unflagging enthusiasm as he'd once attempted to swindle River City, it unnerved her to _need_ him so much. Need was an entirely different matter than love. Need was dependent. Need was desperate. Need was dangerous. It was no wonder neither of them had been brave enough to say it again.

At least, not until now. Just as Marian had opened a new frontier in their lovemaking last night, Harold had awakened new vistas of possibility in his declarations this morning. It seemed an odd role reversal that she was leading him down wider physical paths while he was leading her down deeper emotional avenues, but he had responded so wonderfully to her overtures that she wanted nothing more than to reciprocate in kind to his advances. She wanted to make him feel as wonderful and _needed_ as he did her.

So Marian told him the raw, vulnerable, aching truth that was deep in her heart ever since Winthrop turned to her with bright, beaming eyes and exclaimed how wonderful his new cornet was. "I've needed you since before you even came to River City," she said softly.

Harold pulled her into a fierce hug. "Marian, _never_ tell me that you haven't done enough to make today worth remembering. This is one of the best 'yesterdays' I've piled up with you yet."

She smiled into the crook of his neck, feeling a heady resurgence of desire as she breathed in the beguiling scent of bay rum and sandalwood that was uniquely him. "So then, darling – what _else_ do you want to do to make today worth remembering?"

His answer was instantaneous. "I want to take you upstairs for the rest of the morning – at least. Show you the sights, ride the rides." He pulled back and gave her the most deliciously wicked grin. "Though I must say, you've already ridden the maypole _very_ thoroughly."

After all the tears she'd cried, it was a downright relief for Marian burst into laughter, even as she blushed to the roots of her hair. Normally, she would have swatted the wickedly charming music professor and deflected his mischief, but she was struck by the perverse desire to see where this kind of conversation would go if she let it. "One does not _ride_ a maypole, _Mister_ Hill," she said mock-primly. "One twirls around it – and I certainly didn't do any twirling!"

Harold looked astounded, but in an elated way. "No, you didn't do any twirling," he agreed, his wit only dulling for a moment. That delicious grin came roaring back. "You did a lot of undulating, bouncing, and writhing." He leaned in close and whispered, "And _coming_."

It was the dirtiest they had ever talked to each other – and so far, it was absolutely delightful. Marian's rejoinder was just as saucy, but the tenderness of her deep love, want, and need for him greatly softened her tone as she said, "Well, it would have been a terrible shame to waste such a lovely 'maypole' as that."

Almost as if she'd spoken an incantation, she felt him grow hard beneath her. "Oh Marian," he groaned, his hands seizing her hips again. "You really are the most alluring woman I have ever known." His mouth nipped at the side of her neck and he surged forward, his erection pulsing and pressing against her, clearly aching to slip inside of her again.

Relishing the way she could make him so hot, even as she felt herself grow wet with wanting, she responded, "And _you_ are the most cunning linguist."

Marian thought this rejoinder would drive him into a frenzy of lovemaking. Instead, Harold stopped abruptly, his eyes sparkling not only with lust, but also with the same feverish glee as when he was struck by a grand idea. She moaned in disappointment, but he hushed her with a sweet kiss and a smoldering look. Before she could protest any further, he wrapped his arms tightly around her and heaved himself to his feet. After checking that her legs were still securely wound around him, he whisked her upstairs.

"Madam Librarian, I'm going to spend the next hour showing you just how cunning of a linguist I truly am," he promised, his eyes blazing with animated anticipation as he laid her on their bed.

Marian arched an eyebrow at him. "I look forward to it… but it may take some convincing." She had gone so much further than she ever dreamed she was capable of doing, and wondered if she ought to pull back a little, lest she truly cross a line. But she couldn't help egging Harold on. It was intoxicating to see the way her boldness drove him absolutely wild.

"Believe me, Marian," he said as he divested both her and himself of the rest of their clothing as hastily as possible, somehow still debonair in his movements even in his impatience to get down to business, "I intend to be _very_ thorough in my demonstrations."

And then his marvelous mouth was all over her, inflaming and marking her body as heatedly and possessively as he had the night before. But he didn't remain in her lap the whole time. Once she was satisfied he'd made his point by bringing her to ecstasy not once, or twice, but three times, he slid up and covered her body with his.

The triumphant smile Harold had worn as he lifted his head from her lap completely disappeared as his face neared hers and their eyes met. He paused and gazed at her in that wonderful, heated, besotted way he did the evening they first traded rumors on her mother's front porch. He looked at her as if she was the only one in the world who existed to him and, more than that, he was thoroughly staggered by the strength of his own feelings for her. "I need you, Marian," he said solemnly.

"I need _you_ more than anything, Harold," she said fiercely.

His mouth crashed down onto hers and, once again, he was inside her. After the deprivation of the previous week, he held absolutely nothing back, in word or deed. And now that her beloved husband was back, Marian was planning to spend the rest of the day and all the days ever after showing him exactly just how much she loved, wanted, and needed him in return.


	6. Sunday Night

_Once the train to Des Moines had pulled out of the River City freight depot and disappeared into the horizon, Harold finally let the friendly grin slide off his face. He and Marian had really dodged a bullet; as his grumbling guts had surmised, Fred Gallup was aiming to do some real damage this time around. Normally, Harold would have relished the sheer and dizzying thrill of achieving victory after risking everything, but now that he had a wife, a family and a town that depended on his success, he'd grown surprisingly apprehensive about such close shaves… if Harold had known just how twisted by bitterness the reporter had become over the past six months, he never would've invited him back to River City a second time.  
~Triumph of the Early Bird, Marianne Greenleaf_

XXX

After seeing Fred Gallup safely off at the freight depot, Harold Hill hastened to the armory, where a communal supper was being held to mark the end of the Easter Parade festivities.

To his surprise, Marian was standing outside, waiting for him. He was both delighted and touched that she went to such heartwarming trouble on his behalf, as he would have expected her to be inside and in the thick of things, surrounded by the River City-ziens who, in the absence of their beloved bandleader, would not have hesitated to fawn over his lovely wife.

And the librarian was indeed lovely. As Harold approached the armory, he thoroughly admired how stunning and formidable Marian looked in her fitted, ivory bandleader's jacket with matching skirt that flared out at the knee and framed her figure just beautifully. The gold buttons and epaulets, along with the gold ribbon that trimmed the collar, cuffs of her sleeves, and hem of gown, glinted becomingly in the setting sun. Her ivory feathered cap was perched at a jaunty angle on her honey-blonde curls. In this uniform, she wasn't just the most gorgeous woman Harold had ever seen, she was every inch his partner and co-leader of the boys' band.

But Harold was far too rattled to engage in any flirtation or banter. The moment he reached Marian, he threw his arms around her. They were alone, but at the moment, he wouldn't have cared if they were before all of River City. And to his relief and delight, she did not balk at his effusiveness – she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him back just as fiercely. Clearly, he wasn't the only one who'd been disquieted by the reporter's latest visit.

"Is everything all right, darling?" she asked softly.

Harold nodded into the crook of her neck, still not trusting himself to speak. They had one more public celebration to get through, and he couldn't afford to break down just yet. He breathed deeply, taking comfort from his wife's sweet scent and warm embrace. _Things really are okay_, he reminded himself. After all, he'd won! He'd managed to defuse Fred Gallup's bitterness long enough to talk him out of whatever poison pen article he was planning to write about the Hills and the River City boys' band. Once again, his charisma and talent for persuasion had saved the day. He ought to be rejoicing, instead of trembling.

Yet the anger and alarm that the music professor had managed to restrain during the day now coursed through him, and he was unable to repress these feelings any longer. Perhaps it was because Fred Gallup was a lot more bitter and predatory than even the seasoned former swindler was expecting. While Harold wasn't surprised by the reporter's jealousy over his marriage to Marian, he couldn't help being unsettled by how brazenly and unabashedly the man eyed the librarian when he thought no one else was watching. Mr. Gallup looked not only as if he was outright plotting to wheedle her away – even knowing she was happily married and possibly expecting! – but also as if he was actually considering how best to embarrass her for failing to choose him. And if Harold had still been in the iron grip of laryngitis, he would not have been able to stop the man's nefarious plan to ruin their reputation from coming to fruition…

But Harold couldn't think about any of this right now, or he _would_ break down. Somehow finding the strength to swallow his unease once again, he lifted his head and smiled into his wife's concerned eyes. "Mr. Gallup is no friend of ours, but he isn't going to destroy us."

Marian looked both relieved and awed. "How did you convince him, Harold?"

"It wasn't easy," he admitted. "He greatly resents the happiness and success I've found – both with the band, and with you. But I reminded him that he's a music man, too. No matter how cynical and disillusioned he's grown with his lot in life, he doesn't have it in him to destroy the music in River City." At least, that's what Harold had counted on. Thankfully, his supposition about the man's character had proved to be right on the mark!

Marian beamed at him in that warm and wonderful way of hers, the look that never failed to make his heart both soften and sing. "I knew you'd persevere, Harold. Mr. Gallup never had a chance against you – and if he didn't know it before, he certainly does now."

Bolstered by her unwavering faith in him, Harold could happily face a hundred public celebrations. Offering both a jaunty grin and his arm to his wife, he said, "Shall we, my dear?"

The music professor and librarian triumphantly but decorously entered the armory, their grins widening even more when they were greeted with cheers and applause. The mayor, who looked as if he would burst with pride, launched into a longwinded but flattering speech commending all the two of them had done for River City. Family, friends, and acquaintances swarmed around them, offering words of congratulations, praise, and gratitude. Harold thoroughly basked in the limelight, all the more because he had truly earned it. And it warmed his heart to see that Marian was also genuinely enjoying all the accolades and attention they received for their hard work.

Yet in the back of Harold's mind, the reporter's vendetta still rankled, needling at him like a small pebble in an otherwise comfortable and attractive shoe. As the evening wore on, his grin grew more and more strained, and he was starting to feel drained rather than energized by the constant crowds clamoring for a piece of Professor Hill. Fortunately, he was such an adept and practiced showman that none of the River City-ziens perceived the gradual change in his mood.

But Marian noticed. She always did. Using her own brand of cordial diplomacy, she managed to extricate them from the festivities a full hour before Harold expected they would have been allowed to get away. Even so, he kept up the masquerade of carefree cheer as they walked home together, lest they run into someone they knew well enough to have to exchange pleasantries with on the way. Once they had gotten into the front hall of their charming Victorian and Marian had closed and locked the door behind them, the grin dropped right off of Harold's face. Without a word, he pulled his wife into his arms and kissed her long, hard, and deep, not stopping until they finally had to part and gasp for air.

Surprisingly, Marian didn't press him to talk to her right away, as he would have expected – instead, she reciprocated his embrace just as eagerly and desperately. The only thing that kept him from pressing her against the wall and taking her right then and there was the possibility that she may have been pregnant. Not even the most venal of his carnal appetites could countenance putting her and their child at such risk, so he whisked her upstairs once they'd recovered their breath. Their preamble was nearly nonexistent – as soon as they removed their clothing, they pulled each other right down to bed. Harold could hardly tell who was more ravenous to have whom, and this was reflected in their lovemaking. Their embrace was as fierce and volatile as the storms that rolled across the plains – sometimes he rolled her beneath him, sometimes she got him flat on his back. Yet it wasn't a battle for dominance – it was a deeply shaken pair of lovers ardently reassuring both themselves and each other that no one could destroy them. Too overcome with emotion to speak, Harold squeezed Marian's shoulder as she rode him, and she squeezed his shoulder as she writhed supine beneath him.

When they finally stilled, gasping and spent, Harold was stunned to see the serenity and satisfaction radiating from Marian's face. While their lovemaking had done a great deal to ease his turmoil, he hadn't quite regained his own balance just yet. So he buried his head in her disheveled curls and attempted to gather his thoughts for the uncomfortable but restorative conversation they would need to have before he was truly at peace.

XXX

Harold had always been very much of the mindset, "to the victor go the spoils," but even he couldn't help feeling a twinge of sympathy when he saw the way Fred Gallup's face fell when he found out Marian was married. Of course, the music professor had promptly muzzled this pang – he could not afford to get soft. Especially as the reporter subsequently did his best to knock him off balance with his barrage of complex questions. This time around, the music professor was much more at ease in answering them. The Think System was a well-proven success, and the boys' band had delivered more than one successful concert by this point. What's more, Marian was firmly in his camp and by his side as his acknowledged wife. Unlike last August, the music professor was absolutely sure of his position in the world, and of Marian's place in his life. He could take anything the jealous reporter threw at him.

But he could not take Mr. Gallup going after Marian. Harold had expected the man to make sly little digs at him and attempt to catch him in contradictions. He had also expected the man to tail them all day and insinuate himself in their private moments whenever he could. He had even expected him to try to catch Marian alone at some point. Somehow, he did not expect that the aggrieved reporter would use his poisonous machinations against Marian herself. For all that Harold did not – could not – trust the man, he thought Fred Gallup was better than that.

Apparently, he wasn't. When the reporter approached them at lunch, his plate piled almost absurdly high with an odoriferous meat that Harold knew had the potential to make Marian retch, the music professor was not pleased, but allowed that this could have been an unfortunate coincidence. After all, the man was a nomadic bachelor and probably didn't often get to eat so well. But when Mr. Gallup's questions about the librarian's occupations grew extremely pointed and personal, despite the scrupulously polite tone of voice he asked them in, Harold realized that the far-too-clever reporter was nursing the same suspicions about Marian's condition as he did. Although the music professor's rational mind urged him to remain calm, his primal need to protect the woman he loved overpowered his sense of cold calculation, and he grew more and more incensed as the reporter deftly peeled the librarian's armor away, bit by bit, until she looked like she was going to burst into tears.

At that point, Harold's temper had nearly gotten the better of him, and he seriously considered punching the reporter in his smug face – the exact same way he'd been strongly tempted to deck Charlie Cowell last July. That second-rate salesman, who used Harold's chicanery as an excuse for his own lack of talent in convincing people to buy his ridiculous anvils, had angrily muttered aloud his desire to revenge himself on Marian, or as he referred to her, that "little dried up man-hungry doxy, round-heel fiz gig that lollygagged me around" after she'd succeeded in defusing the anger of the townspeople and proving that Harold Gregory Hill was, in fact, a genuine bandleader. In the celebrations that followed his stunning triumph, Harold was the only one who'd heard these threatening remarks, and he gave the mediocre salesman such a sharp glare that he'd quivered and fled the classroom, not wanting to face his adversary's wrath. When Harold had extricated himself from the adoring crowd to find Marian after her disappearance shortly afterward, he was relieved to find that she was completely unscathed. Which was a good thing, because Harold would not have let Mr. Cowell walk away from River City intact if he had done anything to unsettle or, God forbid, injure the lovely librarian. The music professor may have prided himself on being a man of words, but when anyone threatened the honor or integrity of the woman he loved, he ran out of the inclination to chat awfully fast.

Once again, Marian – dear, sweet, wise, wonderful Marian – saved him from doing anything to Fred Gallup that would have irrevocably tarnished his reputation in the eyes of the River City-ziens and, eventually, the wider world once it was written up in the _Register and Leader_. The librarian's abrupt but ladylike pardon was so perfectly timed that it had to have been purposely planned in order to defuse the storm that was brewing between the music professor and the reporter. Her subsequent fainting, however, was _not_ planned, and Harold had forgotten all about Mr. Gallup's silly little machinations in his sheer panic over his wife's collapse. When he was reminded of the reporter's odious presence, he was pleased to see that Mr. Gallup looked suitably chastened… and then his anger flared up again, as the man was looking much guiltier than the situation actually warranted. That had to have meant his preposterous pile of ham was indeed a ruse meant to knock Marian off balance!

But the librarian was still in his arms clinging to him for dear life as she weathered her vertigo, so Harold had more pressing concerns than unloading on the reporter who'd caused all the trouble in the first place. He was gratified to see that Fred Gallup hadn't entirely lost his sense of decency – looking genuinely horrified and contrite, the man hastily removed his plate of ham from the vicinity and fetched a glass of water. This helped cool the music professor's temper enough to find the strength to leave Marian's side and finish the concert. When Harold did what he had to do and was finally able to return to the alcove, he saw a beaming untroubled librarian and a thoroughly chastened reporter, and knew that victory was his.

So why, then, had he felt the need to chase after Mr. Gallup and make sure his triumph was complete? Perhaps because, admittedly, it _did_ rankle a little to watch another man with an unsavory agenda attempt to dismantle everything real and good that he'd worked so hard to build. Harold supposed he deserved to know how this felt, as he had done the very same thing to others in his former selfish quests to swindle and seduce. Now that he was a true giver, he rather reviled men who never progressed beyond taking and, as he'd managed to escape being imprisoned for his previous crimes, he could understand how this would vex the sense of justice of an honorable and principled man like Fred Gallup. Not that the reporter was so honorable and principled, anymore. He had grown far too embittered for that. This time around, he was clearly out for vengeance. And that was _not_ justice, no matter what the man was likely telling himself so he could sleep at night.

Even so, Harold could deal with the fallout of the reporter's poison pen – no matter what Mr. Gallup wrote about him in the _Des Moines Register and Leader_, he'd still have Marian and River City staunchly in his corner. No out-of-towner with an ax to grind could destroy the deep and abiding love he shared with the librarian or the joy and goodwill he'd forged with the townspeople through his singular talent, or so Marian assured him, of bringing out the music in their sons and daughters. They would all stand by him, if the worst came to pass.

But if the resentful reporter did anything to embarrass or tarnish Marian, there would be real hell to pay. And that's why Harold went after Fred Gallup. To warn him. The former fly-by-night salesman had put his own reprobate father in harm's way to protect his beloved mother – though he'd not quite intended such a fatal outcome – and he would not hesitate to destroy any man who hurt Marian Paroo Hill, the woman he loved more than his own freedom. Even as a conman, Harold had protected the people he considered his own. Now that he was a legitimate music man with a wife and a place that he loyally and wholeheartedly belonged to, he was doubly determined that no harm would befall any of his kith and kin. After decades of a solitary existence riding the rails, he'd built himself a home and a family from the ground up – he wasn't about to let someone else swoop in and destroy everything.

But how much of this could he tell Marian without letting the cat out of the bag about his suspicions as to her condition? In all likelihood, she didn't yet know she was expecting, and this was the last way he wanted her to realize her own pregnancy – an envious and bitter would-be rival goading her into discovery. And in truth, Harold wasn't entirely sure if she was actually expecting. It was certainly a possibility but, if pressed, he wouldn't have bet anything important on it. Because he didn't know the territory. And for the first time in his life, this terrified rather than excited him. He had so much more to lose if he made a fatal blunder.

XXX

"Marian, would you have loved me more if you'd met me back when I was an honest salesman?" Harold asked when he finally broke the long silence between them. It was something he'd always genuinely wondered, even if it was a misdirection from the more dicey topic presently weighing on his mind.

Her answer was swift and certain. "Harold, I fell in love you because I saw the wonderful potential of what you could be, not because I was mesmerized by your showmanship. Professor Harold Hill _was_ exciting, but the glimmers of the unpretentious, serious, and intent man I saw looking at me from behind his mask during our most unguarded moments together – those were what really made my heart turn over."

Harold's mouth found hers for a moment, and he wordlessly expressed his gratitude and devotion to the only woman who had ever believed in and stood by him, even after knowing exactly what he was. "I was so gone over you," he told her, freely and gladly admitting the truth he'd tried so hard to deny at the time. "I still am."

Marian looked very earnestly into his eyes, fearlessly broaching the subject he hadn't quite worked himself up to talk about yet. "Fred Gallup never had a chance with me, Harold. He wouldn't ever have one, even if I was still unmarried. There is no other man like you in the world, and there never will be."

"I wasn't worried about that, not this time," Harold confessed, forcing himself to continue meeting her gentle but penetrating gaze. "I was worried that he would try to hurt you for choosing me. The poison pen article he was planning before I managed to talk him out of it wouldn't have tarnished only _my_ reputation."

Her eyes widened. "So that's why you went after him. I _had_ wondered… "

Harold wasn't sure whether to be relieved or chagrined that she understood him so completely. "You considered this possibility?"

Marian let out a sigh that was sad but resigned. "After what I experienced at the hands of the River City gossips and what I endured from Ed Griner and men like him, how could I not be aware of the kinds of horrible things one person could do to another in the name of spite and jealousy?"

Harold's arms tightened both protectively and possessively around her. "That is not knowledge you should ever have had to learn, my dear little librarian."

"As painful as it was to learn, it is far better to be aware than naïve," she said sensibly. "Lack of worldly knowledge can be very dangerous, in certain circumstances."

Harold nodded. He supposed that if and when they had children – especially if they had daughters – they would need to teach them these things, in order to prepare and protect them from those who would not hesitate to take advantage of their innocence. As he continued to gaze steadily at the rare pearl of a woman he was so lucky to call his wife, he realized just how badly he wanted to build a family with her. Although he'd first been taken by the notion of Marian being the mother of his children when she'd comforted Winthrop the night the music professor was unmasked as a fraud, he hadn't dared to hope that this would be a possibility for them.

Even after they were married, he couldn't bring himself to explicitly share this hope with Marian, outside of the occasional sly remark – it was too dear and tenuous a dream to risk putting into words just yet. While Harold wasn't familiar with pregnancy, he knew something about the loss of it. His mother had suffered one miscarriage after another as his father rebounded in and out of their lives, and he saw the way each loss ate away at her soul, until she was a mere shell of the vibrant and vivacious woman she once was. Given that her husband was conveniently never around to pick up the pieces after each tragedy occurred, it was left entirely to Harold to help his mother cope. Even though she never breathed a word of complaint or displeasure, he saw how much she suffered – deeply, quietly, and alone. It was yet another betrayal he would never forgive his father for.

For all that he had turned out to be a reprobate himself, Harold steadfastly refused be the sort of man who left such despair in his wake. If a woman was a maid or widowed or otherwise unattached to a man, he never finished in her. (Luckily, the sadder-but-wiser gals he preferred were staunchly opposed to falling pregnant, and sophisticated enough to employ additional prophylactic methods of their own.) He also tried to avoid finishing in married and affianced women, but on the rare occasions when they begged him to do just that or he got too carried away by his own passion to withdraw, he figured that if a child resulted from the union, he would have a readymade father to either raise him or help endure the sorrow of loss. Admittedly, Harold had secretly worried about a basket or two being dropped on his doorstep after settling down in River City, as he had been a bit more reckless in Illinois than was prudent. But as time passed, it seemed less and less likely that such a life-shattering event would occur.

Even now that he was a happily reformed and married man, these were very difficult subjects for Harold to think about, let alone discuss with Marian. For one, she would not have appreciated the stark reminder of how exactly he had gained all the experience he now used solely to pleasure and delight her. And now that his conscience was in proper working order, the guilt that consumed him whenever he contemplated the possibility of there being a child of his somewhere out there was not something he could endure for long. Which is why he rarely allowed himself to ponder too deeply about having children with Marian, despite his wanting them so badly.

But tonight, Harold could think of nothing else. If Marian _wasn't_ carrying his child right now, he wanted to make absolutely certain she would be, as soon as he could arrange it.

"You deserve everything that's good and wonderful, Marian," he said earnestly. "And I want to give it to you."

She beamed at him. "You already have, Harold."

"Well, I plan on continuing to give it to you," he promised. Banishing all burdensome thoughts of the past and his previous transgressions, he focused entirely on the magnificent future he was creating with Marian by rolling her beneath him and giving her a suggestive grin that implied he meant this sentiment in a lot more ways than one. More than implied – he had grown hard again, and she was so closely entwined with him that she could not fail to notice.

Her response was just as encouraging as he had hoped for. "And just what is it that you're planning to give me, _Mister_ Hill?" she asked, grinning impishly at him in return. 

He pressed his hips against hers. "Another maypole ride, of course."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "For how long?" she said, her tone both challenging and inviting as she parted her thighs to welcome his advances.

He gave her a smoldering look. "For as long and often as I can manage to make you come until I do."

"And how many times do you suppose that will be?" she asked, her words far more colored by desire than coquettishness as he slid inside her.

"For as many times as you want me," he groaned as he felt her tighten around his cock. He leaned in and nipped at the side of her neck. "If I _do_ finish too fast, we can always try again… and again… and again… " He punctuated each _again_ with a love-bite until she was moaning and writhing heedlessly beneath him, all further flirtation forgotten as they started moving together in earnest.

But the librarian's heated words, along with the naughty wordplay she had engaged in with him yesterday, kept running through Harold's head as they made love. The way Marian had talked to him was something else. And it wasn't just what she said that got him all lathered up, it was how she said it. He'd talked dirty with women before, but never with a woman he loved. He'd taken a huge chance in what he said about maypoles and, instead of cutting him down to size, she had flirted back just as licentiously. He never thought he'd hear those kissable crimson lips say such electrifying things so early in their marriage, and he looked forward to the deliciously wicked words he would eventually teach her to say, as well as the clever phraseology that she would no doubt dream up to delight and drive him wild.

Yet for all their heated banter, the pace of their lovemaking this time around was slow, sweet, and tender. It was almost as if it was their wedding night again – he led, and she followed. Of course, there was a delectable ease and self-assurance in Marian's demeanor that she had lacked back then, being a modest maid at the time. In all likelihood, she only trailed him now because her energy was flagging – he could tell from the increasingly ragged tenor of her gasps that she was growing tired. Out of concern for her health, Harold let himself go over the edge a bit sooner than he'd intended. It was a good thing he did, for not long after he came – he held Marian close for a few moments afterward, remaining inside of her to further increase her odds of conceiving – her stomach rumbled against his.

As the librarian had already eaten quite heartily throughout the entire day, Harold took this as another encouraging sign that the future he longed for was already in progress. Marian, however, remained sweetly unaware of what her increased hunger could mean, and blushed adorably crimson. Before she could so much as apologize for her body's indiscretion, he had kissed her into dreamy silence, leaped out of bed, and hastened to bring her a snack. That did just the trick – once they had both eaten enough to satisfy their hunger for food, the librarian turned the music professor over and mounted him with such a fiercely renewed enthusiasm that he was surprised the bed didn't collapse beneath them.

Much later, as Harold lay there, still wrapped around Marian but thoroughly sated in both body and soul, he was far more disposed to be charitable toward Fred Gallup. Sure, the man had threatened them, but he was still a decent fellow at his core, and he had ultimately departed from River City on an amicable note. The reporter just wanted true companionship, and his wanting had warped him. Fortunately, Harold had succeeded in untwisting him a bit. It would have been a real shame if, in his frustration and loneliness, the reporter went down a path of corruption. For the music professor hadn't lied when he said that all men paid for what they did, regardless of whether or not they were imprisoned for it – the demons _did_ eventually catch up to a man once he stopped running.

But, Harold reflected as he gazed at Marian's blithely slumbering form, he no longer had to fight them alone. And they were a small price to pay, in comparison to the glorious contentment and joy he was experiencing with the woman who loved him so truly, deeply, and devotedly. As he drifted off to join his beloved in untroubled sleep, he hoped Fred found similar happiness someday.


End file.
